


Not Afraid

by Luthor



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, second in a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-06 00:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6729976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lara Amell/Kar Trevelyan. In which Kar handles her emotions about as well as a six year old, but in all fairness, this entire thing is terrifying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Afraid

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tieflings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tieflings/gifts).



> Written very quickly as a writing exercise for something greater. This is set directly after Keelahh's ['Storm'](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6343882).

Kar is not afraid.

Frustrated, yes. Annoyed, undoubtedly.

When Lara leaves her in the training grounds, dirt on her back and her cheeks pink, _bested_ , she is not afraid of embarrassment or the size of the crowd that has just witnessed her fall. She is panting and sweat-slick and burning at the palms, mana restored and ready, _begging_ , hungry to lash out with a flame that would lick the smirk off gently painted, smiling lips.

 

Kar is not afraid.

Not when Lara joins their expedition to the western deserts, too hot by day and freezing by night. She is sand-grated nerves and constant jostling, an elbow in Lara’s back and one quick and never repeated press of her toes to warm, soft flesh. She is the silence that follows her tent partner’s pillow-softened grumble, and an irritable breakfast after a night of little sleep.

 

Kar is not afraid.

Nor ashamed of her naked body.

She is a lifetime of communal bathing and shared soap, of the impatient dance for a turn beneath a torrent of lukewarm water. When the oasis comes into sight, she is fifteen steps ahead of her party and already several articles of armour lighter. She is the laughter when she catches Blackwall’s ruddy face, turned away, wide eyes, and the way the smile freezes on her lips when she realises that she is being joined. She is pink cheeks and submerged to the nose and _looking, stop looking_ when Lara steps a naked foot into the water.

 

Kar is not afraid.

But her hands shake when the dagger slides through her flesh like a hot poker through butter. She is soft and falling and a green-tinged peripheral, until the focus returns to eyes night-dark and just as deep. She is the shiver when blood covered fingers press at her cheek as though to test whether the wan expression is usual, or else requires a second potion. She is an unsteady grip and head-spinning when she stands, fingers laced tight and Lara’s shoulder stone-steady beneath her forehead.

 

Kar is not afraid.

She drinks for the pleasure of her company, if not the ale itself. She is two left feet when Bull tries to twirl her, and a heavy landing in something soft and expensive, in something _yelping_. She is eyes wide and three botched apologies, one outstretched hand ready to catch herself against the tavern floor when Lara inevitably unseats her from her lap. She is sobering wonder when her only response is loud laughter, head-upturned, eyes crinkled and closed. She is a shiver to the spine at the arm that winds around her waist, keeping her seated.

 

Kar is not afraid.

She is _not_.

She is sweating palms and staggered breathing, closed eyes and dark, soft hair tickling her cheeks. She is her back to a stone wall, the silence of an empty corridor, the thunder in her chest. She is static electricity against her lips when Lara draws her mouth away, and fingers curling in the ends of a tunic, drawing her back, closer, closer, _do that again_.

 

Kar is not afraid.

She is a straight back and constricting lungs when she catches the stray end of a disapproving stare.

She is _Templars have no power here, but,_ and a quick escape to an empty balcony. And she is sorry, though she does not say soon enough, after a quick retreat from soft, questing, _worried_ hands, after her back-turned silence and the door that Lara slips through, unstopped, when Kar flinches out from beneath her touch.

 

Kar is not afraid.

She is a braceleted hand around Lara’s wrist, a _please, please,_ as she draws her back into her room. She is a half-whispered apology against soft, dark skin, bowed head, tucked beneath a chin until arms return around her. She is teary love-making and clinging and dreamless sleep, Lara’s hand through her choppy red hair, the other fist-tight around her hip.

 

Kar is not afraid.

But exhausted, burned out, and vaguely limping.

She is the mug that is pressed into her hands as she is passed to and from each companion and friend, drank from until she is empty, knees-weak and delirious with wonder. She is the hand in hers when they say goodnight to the celebration, the walk upstairs that takes three times too long, Lara’s lips on her throat before they can stumble even through the door.

 

Kar is not afraid, and that’s the truth of it, for just this morning.

She is pre-dawn waking to lips upon her cheek, and laughter as they descend along her body. She is a lie-in until mid-noon, a hungry stomach, hand-fed fruit and kisses to her fingertips after every bite. She is a memory from the night before, sky-sealed hangover, and every caress that is her cure. She is the end of the quest and the beginning of the story. She is a promise of a future, freedom, love. She is _victorious_.


End file.
